It's What You Hear
by alwaysflying
Summary: Suburban conditioning tells Mark that it's unnatural, it's strange and it's wrong. And maybe he believes it a little too much.


"Oh, _fuck_."

Mark looks down to see a boy – doubtlessly a senior – bending over to retrieve his fallen schoolbooks. Among those books are several enormous textbooks that students _definitely_ shouldn't be forced to carry from place to place, if nothing else, for the sake of their health. Immediately after catching sight of the boy's dark blond hair, falling into his eyes, and tight jeans, Mark crouches down. It's practically a cliché to do so, but Mark leans over to help him all the same. The boy doesn't seem to be too appreciative at first, which is evident in his slight snarl, but when Mark hoists three textbooks off the ground and tucks them back into the other boy's backpack, he can't hide a smile. "Thanks. Really. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Mark says offhandedly, although he'd appreciate something entirely different a bit more than he does mere words. Why? Because this boy is _cute_. "I'm Mark Cohen, by the way," he introduces himself, accepting the fact that if there is to be any discussion taking place, it will have to be initiated by him. "Was it my fault? – I mean, did I trip you or something? 'Cause if I did, really, I'm – "

The boy cuts in to reply swiftly and smoothly, "I'm Roger. Roger Davis. And no, it definitely wasn't your fault. It was – some asshole bitch in a skirt, I was watching her, and, well… you know. I just tripped."

Mark nods, snickering a bit to himself. He's run into his fair share of mishaps caused by staring at girls – and boys, of course. And he knows he has heard of this kid, and he's sure he's seen the face before, but can't exactly place him. "You seem familiar," Mark begins hesitantly. "Do I know you from somewhere? I mean, other than school…?"

"Garage band," Roger explains lightly. "Scarsdale's one and only, probably. As far as I know, the only one in Westchester. But I figure every shut-in suburb has to have some teenage anarchy, you know?" He grins. "We're called Vengeful Rebellion." Then he pauses. "Wait. Is today Friday?" At Mark's nod, Roger shrugs and says, "If you want, you can come see us play tonight. It's nothing special, but a bunch of kids wanted to see what we're all about, so… yeah. We're playing in my garage, just like any rehearsal, except we're probably going to skip the joints and have chips and shit instead, you know? So no worries."

Mark, who would probably do just about anything to avoid having to go directly home from school, bobs his head eagerly. "Sure. Yeah. Definitely." He would even sit through a concert performed by untalented teenage musicians in leather and eye make-up, because the alternative is sitting through his sister's magnified worries about whatever date she has tonight, probably _with _a guy in leather and eye make-up. As far as Mark is concerned, it's better to see something than to hear it, so he has absolutely no desire to hear his sister's insecurities. He'd rather see Roger perform, as talentless as he may be. And who knows? Maybe Roger and his band actually _has _talent. It'd be a nice change from the "talent" of Cindy singing in the shower.

Roger grins broadly. "Great. So where do you live? I could arrange for someone to pick you up, or I could do it if you'd be okay with getting there early, or maybe you'd walk, or…"

Embarrassed and almost blushing for Roger and his rambling, Mark hurriedly cuts in, "I'm on Chesterfield Drive. Number seven."

"Oh," says Roger, and he zones out briefly, apparently doing detailed mental calculation. "That's kind of far – I'm on Cranbury Road. Can you drive?" He surveys Mark and shakes his head after a moment. "Wait, no. You're… what, a freshman?"

A magenta blush tinges Mark's pale cheeks. "Um. No, actually," he mumbles embarrassedly. "I know, I'm short – I'm a junior."

"Wow," says Roger. "Me too." His eyes take into account Mark's undaunting height (or lack thereof) and, deciding not to comment, he merely shrugs. "So you _can_ drive?"

Feeling more embarrassed than before, Mark mutters, "Actually, no. My, um, my mom won't let me." He stares at his sneakers, hoping that he will be able to find something interesting that he can stare at rather than humiliate himself in front of the cutest guy he's seen since the one he met during his little "bathroom break" at temple on Rosh Hashana two years ago.

Roger reaches over and tilts Mark's chin upward. "Hey, hey," he says comfortingly, "don't get all shy and embarrassed. It's okay. I'll find someone to pick you up, okay? And they'll drive you. No big deal."

Now thoroughly humiliated, against Roger's protests, Mark continues to stare at his feet. "Okay," he manages to grunt, and wonders why the hell he couldn't skip school altogether today like he was planning to.

Then again, if he had skipped today, he wouldn't have the honor being addressed by Roger Davis, whose eyes are gorgeous, even to someone like Mark, who's only liked one guy before in his entire life.

So Roger is the second guy Mark has ever liked. But as for the intensity of this crush, he definitely ranks as the first.

---

Mark is at a loss.

Scarsdale High School students all have their own "unique" style, usually one that they share with maybe a hundred fifty other kids. In Mark's case, it is khaki pants and collared plaid shirts.

Now, to be fair, the clothes are not Mark's choice. They were, in fact, selected by his mother – before he was born – at such time enough clothes to last him maybe ten years were purchased. By the time one is ten, deviating from the style one was _born _with is simply unheard of, and so Mark is stuck with a closet full of plaid, khaki, and boxers color-coded for every day of the week.

However, based on what Mark knows of Roger, he doubts that his normal attire will be appropriate. The only solution he can imagine at the moment involves his jeans – his _only _pair of jeans – and the leather jacket his father keeps for springtime outings. The jacket is concealed in a downstairs closet, so the first part of the plan merely concerns the jeans.

In a pencil case on Mark's desk is a scissor. It is, in fact, a scissor that might be found in the pencil case of a third-grader, considering that it is much too small for his hand. However, it'll have to do in this case, rather than Mark going downstairs to retrieve his mother's kitchen scissors and getting accosted on the way back. So with the scissor clasped in one hand, Mark snatches up his jeans and leaps onto the bed, proud when nothing manages to fall off, not even the stuffed animals his mother insists upon putting on display when she makes Mark's bed every morning.

Dexterous from years of steady-hand camera operation, Mark is used to cutting things perfectly straight. In this case, he cannot do such a thing, because Roger is going to expect jeans with natural holes, not ones cut by some loser who only has one pair and probably shouldn't be doing this _anyway_. So Mark deliberately makes his hands shake as he zigzags his way through the left knee of his pants, suitably tearing out most of the fabric and leaving it in a mess on his bed. He then moves on to the next knee and does the same.

When he is finished, Mark glances down at the bed, which is now strewn with denim. _Oh_. He hadn't thought of that, obviously. The first thing that comes to his mind is to merely toss it out the window into the neighbors' yard, which is probably a bad idea because the neighbors have a dog, but oh well. He barks in the mornings, so if he chokes on the abandoned fabric, that's not Mark's problem.

The next step involves the leather jacket. The way Mark sees it, he's going to have to keep it zipped up all the way, because he simply does not have a shirt that would fit the situation, unless for some reason Roger has an all-plaid dress code that Mark should be aware of. (Then again, he _has _seen Roger in plaid pants before…)

Just as Mark is trying to work up the courage to go downstairs – in his untorn pants, obviously, because his mother would most likely have a heart attack if she saw Mark's pants with _holes _in them – there is a knock on his door. Terrified, Mark throws the jeans under his bed, but the person who enters is only his sister Cindy. "Hey," she says cheerfully, but she sees the scissor on her brother's bed and the blue demin poking out beneath it.

"Where're _you _going tonight, little bro?" she asks, sporting her signature smirk.

Mark mumbles something about a rock concert and "just please don't tell Mom."

"I won't tell Mom," Cindy says. "Actually, no, I was just going to ask if you saw my lip gloss. But now that I'm here, on the subject of make-up… you want some eyeliner?"

At first, Mark protests. Eyeliner calls to mind teenage drag queens and girls with no self-confidence. But as Cindy points out, teenage boys don't really have great taste, and eyeliner is cool among them for some reason. Cindy herself never wears it, her eyes being so dark they are nearly black, but would be "glad to help you out."

Although Mark says a very loud and clear "no," Cindy seems deaf to his protests, and leaps on top of her brother, eye pencil in hand, ready to make him look completely unlike himself.

Sometimes, however, Mark thinks that that's just what he needs. So maybe in this case, a mask is perfectly acceptable.

---

Right on time, a car pulls up in Mark's driveway. It is a vivid orange, and considering that Mark knows absolutely nothing about cars, there is absolutely no critical remark he can make about it either way except to mentally point out that he loathes orange.

The driver is a girl, out of whose mouth sticks a cigarette. Her exposed, tan long legs are visible even to Mark as he buckles his seat belt beside her, and he sees her staring at him out of the corner of her eye. "Mark Cohen," he says, extending his hand for her to shake, but the girl merely ignores him and twists the keys in the ignition.

Not wanting to press conversation with someone who obviously doesn't like him, Mark slides his chair up a bit, doing his best to focus on the moving picture that is the world outside the vehicle. As he zones into his own little world, the girl has the audacity to speak up again, disturbing the little film Mark had running in his head. "Maureen Johnson," she says, and her voice is just as smoky as the car now is. Mark shudders, but nods in acknowledgement.

"Nice to meet you," he says politely.

A few more silent minutes pass, and as Maureen turns onto Riverdale Crescent, Mark pipes up, "So how do you know Roger? Or… his band?"

Obviously amused by something Mark doesn't understand, Maureen cackles to herself before snorting, "You mean Roger didn't tell you his girlfriend would be picking you up?" She shifts her legs, crossing one over the other, yet still possessing the ability to touch the gas pedal. "Wow, kid, you really are a nerd – haven't you ever heard of RoMa?"

Mark wrinkles his face as he suggests, "Um, I think that's a country."

"No, stupid," Maureen laughs, "it's Roger-Maureen. That's what they call us in school. Ro-Ma. Get it?"

Mark shrugs. "It seems stupid."

"But you like Roger," Maureen comments off-handedly.

Mark double-takes. "Yeah – wait, _what_?" he demands. "Sure I like him, he's my friend."

"Oh, come on," Maureen sighs, "don't give me that shit. I know you like him, and I haven't even looked into your eyes yet. I guess I'm just _that _good. But if you admit it, you know, I'll tell you – I'm not terribly averse to a threesome, and you're _cute_."

Mark's eyebrows skyrocket. "Um. No thanks," he mumbles.

_Awkward._

The car ride is commenced in silence, and the moment they pull up at Roger's garage, Mark scampers out of the car, ducks into the woods behind the house, and runs in the opposite direction. Maureen watches him go, brushing her hands together with the smug self-satisfaction of a job well done.

---

When Maureen recounts the events leading up to Mark's imminent departure, Roger rolls his eyes. "Mo, you're such a slut," he teases, but his finger invades the hole in the knee of her jean-skirt, obviously not half as outraged as he pretends to be. "Seriously, though, you have to stop scaring the freshman. Well – he says he's a junior, but come on, do _you _believe that bullshit?"

"No," Maureen replies simply, and plucks a cigarette out of Roger's mouth, chastising him, "Roger, you're _singing _tonight. You can't smoke." She places it in her own mouth, deliberately blowing tempting smoke rings in Roger's face, but leaving the musician quite unable to do anything about his helplessness. It isn't quite an addiction yet, but a form of stress relief, in which case the pair considers smoking perfectly acceptable, save for on nights when either is to perform or have to kiss a family member. Because smoky breath _is _perceptible, even from a stage, or in Roger's case, a raised platform with _imaginary_ fake fog swirling around the garage.

Roger pretends to sulk, but Maureen apparently has more to say. "So… this Mark kid. What's the deal, Roger? You like him, or what?"

"No," Roger lies, but Maureen can see it in his face and the whole façade is simply pointless. When a pair of individuals have known each other for seventeen years and have been having sex for three of them, there seems no need for secrets. After all, Maureen and Roger are transparent to one another _anyway_.

Maureen, just as she said to Mark, comments that she "wouldn't mind a threesome."

Roger shrugs. "If I'm gonna have gay sex," he tells his friend, "no way would I want you there. No offense, or anything."

Yes, it is indeed an odd sort of relationship that Roger and Maureen share, but they are teenagers, and their hormones are simply unbridled.

"Well," Maureen retorts, "if I had lesbian sex, I would so hate for there to be a dick."

Loudly, Roger proclaims, "That's enough, Maureen."

"Bi sex isn't that weird, though," she muses to herself. "I mean, I've done it, it's no big deal."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Maureen, this is Scarsdale. Talk any louder and your _mom _will hear you."

Maureen giggles. "Roger, babe, you have a lot to learn," she tells her boyfriend, pulling him close for a kiss. "She only hears what she wants to hear. For example, did you know that yesterday, when I called her a bitch, she thought I called her beautiful?"

"You didn't," Roger points out.

Maureen smiles. "In Scarsdale," she announces, just as she has millions of times before, "and in the general world of suburbia, it's not what you say, but what you _hear_."

---

Sitting in his room, Mark can't think of anything to do other than to tear up paper. He never destructs anything of any possible value; tearing up his journals or diaries has always seemed more self-destrucive than anything else, and Mark hates enduring any pain directed at either his body or internal state. It just seems like a waste. So instead of ruining anything that means something, Mark tears paper. Blank, unmarked printer paper, white as the underside of his arms.

The phone rings.

Like so many other elements of Mark's suburban teenaged life, it's practically a cliché when he hears a male voice on the other side of the line, sounding like he is surrounded by countless other people and should probably be talking to one of them instead of to a nerd who opted out of a concert in favor of sulking over an unrequited crush.

An unrequited _male _crush, he can't help reminding himself, on one of the most attractive boys in the world, probably. An unrequited male crush with a girlfriend.

With a loud sigh, Mark asks, "Hello?"

"Hey," comes Roger's voice on the other end. Mark shivers. His voice is just too – too something to allowed. "Is this Mrs. – uh, is this Mark's mom? I'd like to speak with Mark, please."

Mark groans audibly. "Speaking," he tells Roger abashedly, and it is simply outrageous to know that Roger is definitely not blushing, and it is entirely his ownfault – instead, Mark's cheeks are pink, turning into red, for something that Roger said. It shouldn't be embarrassing to him, it should be embarrassing to Roger. And yet it isn't.

Roger takes no notice of his error, and asks, "Why aren't you here? Maureen – um, the driver – said she got to your house and you weren't home."

Well, thank god for that, Mark thinks bitterly. "Yeah, sorry," he grunts. "My, um, my sister needed to get picked up from the train station, so my mom and I had to drive over to White Plains."

"Oh," Roger says, and sounds briefly put out before asking, "Could your mom drive you over here?"

_God_. Does this boy not know when to _quit_?

Mark hastily searches his mind for some excuse. "Um… sorry, no," he mumbles. "She's, um, cooking. She's cooking – uh, meatloaf. And it takes forever, you know." At least, he hopes. And god, he hopes Roger doesn't have any experience in cooking. Thankfully, the aspiring rock star on the other end of the line sounds amused.

"Is she, now?" he asks, concealing a laugh. "Oh, okay."

Feeling even more humiliated now, Mark mumbles, "Um… so… yeah."

"So," says Roger conversationally, and now all the noise has drained out of the background. "You're gay?"

Mark sits up abruptly. "_What?!" _

Even if it's _true_,which maybe it is, that doesn't mean it's anything but _personal _information. It's no interest of Roger's. Unless, of course, he were asking for his own personal gain – either to expose Mark, or to…

No. No. Of course not. That could never happen. Roger would never want to date someone like Mark. Never. Mark tells himself that forcefully, trying to ingrain the message before he gets his hopes up too high.

"You heard me," Roger goes on amusedly. "Are you?"

In a split-second decision, Mark snarls, "No, I'm _not_, and you know what? Some things are just fucking _personal_."

Mark slams the phone down, and as he crosses the room to sit on the windowsill, he thinks of the millions of ways that conversation could have gone better, and the millions of ways it simply didn't.

---

"So," says Maureen conversationally to Roger. "He's definitely gay."

Roger rolls his eyes. "You _think_?" he drawls. "Now the problem is getting him to admit it, and getting him to go out with me."

"Shouldn't be hard," Maureen says with a shrug.

"Actually," says Roger, "I think with this one, it will be."

Maureen laughs. "What? You think he doesn't like you?"

"No," Roger replies. "I know he _likes _me, but the ones that are in denial are even harder than the ones who just don't care."

Maureen, rolling her eyes, laughs and says, "You _think_?"

---

Mark sits in the windowsill, arms wrapped tightly enough around himself that were he a balloon, there would be colorful little bits of Mark scattered all over the room. It's a fitting metaphor, because so bubbling with emotion is he right now that he feels quite ready to explode.

"Marky?" calls his mother from a neighboring room. "Marky, are you okay? Are you there, sweetie?"

Mark doesn't say anything. He figures that with all the extra weight his mom has packed on as a result of this irrationally-timed third pregnancy, she may as well walk the five feet into her son's bedroom, even if he doesn't particularly enjoy her presence.

"Oh, Mark, I told you I don't like it when you sit there," Mrs. Cohen all but whines. "If the window glass fell, Mark, you would get hurt."

Rolling his eyes, Mark calmly informs his mother that the window is not going to fall through. She looks skeptical, but turns towards the doorway anyway. "Oh! Marky, there was someone on the phone for you!"

Mark straightens up abruptly. "Really?" he asks, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice. "Was it – "

"It was a boy named Roger," she tells him. "From school, he said. Now Mark, you just be careful, because Roger's a common name and he could just be a man from the neighborhood that wants to stalk you… Oh! And Mark, you're a very handsome boy, he might even be trying to – "

Slightly revolted, Mark turns and hisses, "_Enough_, Mother."

"Well, all right, Marky," she says, and yes, this time there is _definitely _a whine in her voice. She crosses the room, her thighs making a horrible squelching sound as she walks. When she reaches Mark, she hands him a neatly-printed phone number on a piece of "Things To Do Today" paper, decorated with flowers and puppies. He mumbles his thanks and his mother leaves.

The second Mrs. Cohen is out of the doorway, Mark kicks the door shut and tosses himself onto his bed. _Roger, Roger, Roger_. Before he can even consider what to say to the boy, Mark's phone is against his ear. "Roger Davis, please," he chirps to the female voice on the other end of the line.

Responds the boy who just answered the phone, his former falsetto having passed easily for a woman's: "Speaking."

Mark is not the least bit amused. "I fucked up," Mark informs Roger solemnly. "I fucked up."

Roger shrugs, and although Mark cannot see it, he certainly hears the gesture loud and clear. "Don't we all?"

"I fucked up more than I usually do," clarifies Mark. "As in, I fucked up far, far beyond the level at which I typically fuck up. Or at which people in general normally fuck up. I completely and utterly just _fucked up_."

Roger agrees, and says as much, but including extensive detail as to how badly normal people fuck up, and how much worse Mark's error was. Mark shudders.

"Can I make it up to you?" Mark offers, and it just hits him what he is actually saying the moment the words slip out of his mouth. It's times like these when he really wishes he could just keep his mouth shut. Or at least stop the words from slipping out of control, like watery soap in a shower.

With an audible grin, the musician inquires pleasantly, "You got meatloaf, right?"

Mark groans. _Stupid, so fucking stupid_. "You… you know, um, my mom's not really – "

"I know," Roger cuts him off with a laugh. "I know, really. It's fine. We'll just go somewhere else, then. But you're paying."

Mark tilts his head, puzzled. "You mean _out _to eat? With you?"

Roger laughs. "Yeah. Why not?"

Because he simply _needs _to ask this question, Mark tentatively wonders, "You mean, like… like a date?"

"Sure," Roger says agreeably. "Sure, yeah. It doesn't sound like something you do very much," he says, "and probably something you _really_ want to do, in this case."

"Did I say that?"

"No," replies Roger perfectly calmly, "but I heard it anyway." As much as he hates to quote Maureen, he can't help but preach, "You know, in Scarsdale, it's not about what you see, or what people do or say. It's – "

Mark cuts in, "It's what you hear." Sounding almost regretful, he sighs. "Yeah. I know."


End file.
